


Healing

by SincereMercy



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century Medicine, Child Enjolras, Childhood, Don't copy to another site, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Pre-Canon, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereMercy/pseuds/SincereMercy
Summary: Enjolras falls ill at boarding school; his father reflects.





	Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashieundomiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashieundomiel/gifts).

> Important: In this fic, Enjolras is referred to by first name, and his father by last name. I understand this may be confusing or awkward to read, however any alternative way of doing it seemed even more awkward.

“You don’t look so good.”

Michel Enjolras looked up from his _Annales_ to see Étienne no more than a few inches from his face, peering at him with concern. It was not a great distraction; the words on the page had been swimming before his eyes in any case, and he found it difficult to concentrate on Tacitus with his headache. He shook his head and cleared his throat, which was a little sore and dry. “I’m alright.”

Sensing his friend’s skepticism, he nudged him backwards a little. “My head hurts, and my throat’s a little sore. Maybe I am coming down with a cold. Do I look very sick?”

Étienne took a few steps back to sit down on Michel’s bed, leaving him alone at his desk. “You’re a little pale. But it’s breakfast time in a few minutes, and you didn’t eat much last night; maybe you’ll feel better when you have some food.”

This seemed entirely sensible, and Michel nodded in agreement before applying himself once more to Tacitus. He did not get much further, however, before it was time for breakfast, and Étienne led the way with a characteristic spring in his step that Michel did not feel particularly well-equipped to match at that moment.

Upon entering the dining hall, he knew immediately that breakfast and the flurry of loud conversation which tended to accompany it would not be very helpful for the state that he was in. And, though he had some appetite and managed to finish the light food they were given, by the end of the meal he was in no better condition. In fact, he felt very cold, and excused himself abruptly at the end of breakfast to return to his room and put on his coat.

Yet even with the coat, he could not diminish the chill around his body. He sat back down in bed, confused and feeling no small amount of distress, but grateful for the silence and the dark of his room with the curtains drawn. It was some time later before he was disturbed again, Étienne trailing behind the severe-looking school master, Monsieur Allard.

“If you intend to be excused from your lessons, you must present yourself to an authority figure and not simply remain in bed,” he said sharply, and Étienne gave Michel an apologetic look.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, without much feeling, and without standing, and then fell into a coughing fit.

The schoolmaster withdrew without further questioning, and Michel felt gratitude to be given at least some credit for his customary diligence. As he ushered Étienne out of the room and demanded he return to class, despite his protests, there was a flurry of sound outside the door and then silence once more.

This time Michel’s solitude did not last long, and when Allard returned, he brought with him a man that Michel remembered seeing only once before, when all the boys were inspected at the beginning of the fall. The physician took his coat from his shoulders and pressed him into a lying position without asking first or so much as addressing him; Michel felt some surprise to be handled so abruptly, and undressed himself the rest of the way in order to avoid the necessity of the physician doing it himself. There was little about the examination that he understood, for the physician examined his tongue and pressed at various parts of his body, including the forehead albeit only briefly.

“You were wearing your coat because you are chilled?” he asked, and Michel nodded in answer, finding his throat sore enough to discourage unnecessary speech. “I can detect no fever; we will attempt a mustard plaster and syrup of ipecac to begin with.” Turning so that it was clear he was addressing Allard rather than Michel, he continued. “When it comes to mealtimes, he must not eat too much; I recommend you leave out supper altogether. Avoid red meats and especially cheese, and most of all, he must have no cold drinks.”

This, at least, Michel felt worth the use of his voice. “I am very thirsty, sir, may I not have water to drink?”

“No cold drinks,” he repeated firmly, “but stick to healthful teas; I recommend a fenugreek infusion.” Another look at Michel. “I do not think it is very serious, child.” If he was not gentle, he was not unkind either.

He felt very uncomfortable lying exposed in the cold room, more so when the doctor left to prepare his treatments and Michel no longer had the distraction of another person’s voice. When the plaster was applied to his chest, at least, there was some immediate comfort in the heat against his skin, which seemed to spread out over his chest. Whatever relief this provided was soon counteracted, however. The taste of the ipecac syrup was foul enough to begin with, but it sank into his tongue, along his throat; he wished very badly for some water to rid himself of the taste, and instead found himself salivating excessively.

This time, in holding his head over the bowl and brushing his hair from his face as Michel was sick, the physician felt kinder. Michel could not help the tears which rose in his eyes and then spilled down his cheeks, but the doctor said nothing about them, only wiped them away with his handkerchief until, at last, well after his stomach had emptied itself entirely, he was able to relax into exhaustion. The plaster was removed at almost the same time, leaving his chest bright red, and the physician assisted him back into a shirt; Michel pulled the covers over himself and buried his face into his pillows.

“I’ll return in the evening,” the doctor was saying to someone just outside the door, “unless his condition changes drastically.” And then he was gone, and Michel let exhaustion take him.

When he awoke again, Étienne was once again hovering just above him, only this time Michel let out a groan of complaint and turned from him. “Why are you here? You are bothering me.”

“I am supposed to be studying,” he said, sounding remarkably undeterred, “but I can’t imagine how bored I will be if I read ahead of you and thus have nobody to discuss things with.”

“You will discuss them with Saint-Cernin, or any of our other friends.”

Étienne huffed. Clearly this was not a problem that he wished to be solved. “Well, you are awake now, Michou. Let me keep you company. It will be like last summer when you had a cold and were not allowed to play outside.”

Michel frowned, but raised himself up a little. “How will you keep me company?”

Taking this, evidently, as agreement, Étienne hopped out of bed. “Let’s play _Fox and Geese_; I have brought my marbles, and I drew us a board on a bit of parchment during lessons earlier.”

“You have planned this already.”

Étienne raised his eyebrows. “What if I did?”

Michel shook his head. “It is too cold for me to get out of bed to play games.”

“Then you will tell me how you want to move, and stay in bed. And you will play the fox; that makes it easier.”

“Fine; let’s start.” But Michel found it more difficult than usual to concentrate, to anticipate the movements of all the pieces, and it did not take particularly long until Étienne had him surrounded. Yet, far from thrilled to have finally won a game, he looked rather put out. “What’s the matter?”

“You must really be ill for me to win, especially that easily.” Étienne got up to sit with him again, placed a hand on his head, and straight away looked alarmed. “You feel really hot!” Then, looking down at him with real worry, he continued, “I am going to get someone,” before jumping up and hurrying off.

Dizzy, tired, and confused, Michel tried his best to get some more rest despite the cold and the ensuing flurry of activity. The physician returned, this time addressing him with questions that he could hardly make sense of, except for the phrase, directed at someone else, “_Send for the boy’s father_.”

His father was coming.

* * *

_Dear Monsieur Enjolras,_

_Your son, Michel, has fallen ill with influenza. He is under the care of a physician, however, we recommend that he be removed from the school at this time, for his own benefit and to prevent an outbreak among the other children._

There had been no more detail in the curt letter that had landed on Enjolras’s desk that evening. It did not say, ‘_Please hurry to see him, for he may die_,’ but perhaps this was implicit in the recommendation; it was always a risk with influenza, and Michel was ill more often than other children, though he recovered well in every instance. Enjolras told himself he was preparing for the worst, brought with him his usual physician, and asked his driver to make for Saint-Flour with all speed.

He was not prepared, though, for when he arrived, when he was directed to Michel’s room, and when he bent to wake him from his sleep. The vivid blue eyes that Michel shared with his mother reminded Enjolras, now, of her at another time; they were all but lifeless, looking up at him unseeing, and without really stirring.

He may die.

Enjolras drew back quickly, surprised by his own sudden lack of breath, but forced himself forward again, touched his burning brow, and dressed the boy in order to carry him outside. He could not even remember the last time he had held Michel in his arms, and felt an intense pang of sorrow for it now.

“There is the boy, then,” said his groom Poirier, but there was no need for Enjolras to respond; he saw the change in his expression when he took in Michel’s condition. If he could turn so pale as a result, what must Enjolras himself look like now?

“Go and collect his things, please; I would like to leave as soon as possible. Assuming, that is, that he is able to travel to Aurillac at all.” This last he directed to Doctor Rosier, who assisted him in loading Michel into the carriage and proceeded to examine him. Michel let out a vague noise of complaint, which he took for a positive sign.

“His pulse is rapid, and weaker than I would like, but he is breathing well. There is only very little I can do while we are moving, but I think it likely he will sleep peacefully through the night, and … it may be more comfortable for him to be at home, in case.”

Another pang of terror, but Enjolras nodded, murmured his thanks.

Just as Poirier had finished with Michel’s baggage, and they were nearly off, there was a man’s shout and then the louder but weaker voice of a boy. “Wait!”

This he recognized to be Étienne de Reilhac, the boy that Michel played with at home. He, too, was carrying a bag. “Wait! Monsieur Enjolras!” Enjolras stepped from the carriage and came to face the boy, who was staring up at him with determination. “You must take me with you,” he said, meeting his eyes as if he were a man himself. “I have packed and everything, I won’t hold you up any longer.”

“No.”

“But—he is my best friend!” When this did not move Enjolras, his face turned angry. “Why not?”

Because he only tolerated M. de Reilhac, who would be impossible to deal with if he brought his son home without consulting him. Because to permit Étienne to come would be to acknowledge that which he would not say aloud. “Because you must apply yourself to your studies.”

“No!”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and only turned to go, but Étienne seized him by the coat.

“Please! I mean—” he swallowed, looking near tears. “You must write to me immediately if anything happens. If he is well or not. My father will not, so you have to. Please. Please, Monsieur.”

Enjolras nodded. “I promise.” This was enough to secure his freedom, and he made quick use of it, though once they started on their way he looked back through the window to see the boy, indeed, crying openly, before a stern-looking man came to take him by the arm.

The trip back to Aurillac was mostly uneventful. The physician was right that Michel rested most of the time, though he alternated between shivering violently and clutching his coat, and sweating profusely. Enjolras took the opportunity to hold Michel close, to touch his hair and his forehead and attempt to provide some peace.

It was odd to see him vulnerable in this way. He could not remember a time in which Michel had come to him for comfort; always an odd, quiet child, he did his best to please his father, minded what he was told, and largely stayed out of his way. Feelings of love, warmth, joy, or sadness rarely entered into it.

But then, Michel was only a child. It was his own fault they were not close; if Michel was not open about his feelings with him, it was only because he himself was not open about himself to his son. And why, really? There was nothing disappointing in Michel, nothing he could possibly hold against him, save for the circumstances of his birth. And yet that had been enough to separate them so. He had blamed an innocent for the death of his mother, had wished more than once that she had lived and the child not.

Yet to contemplate his death now was unimaginable. Not only because Michel was hers, though indeed he was the only living piece of her that remained. Not only because Michel was his sole son and only heir. Because this was his child, his boy; because he loved him; because he had Michel and no one else in the world to love, and perhaps to be loved by in return. But had he fostered that love at all? Enjolras closed his eyes and did not weep; it was not easy.

Upon arriving in Aurillac, Poirier and Enjolras lifted Michel, who now at least seemed to be somewhat more responsive, and carried him up to his bedroom on the first floor. Michel opened his eyes, but he still seemed confused, distant. “Father?”

“Yes, child, you are at home,” he said, dismissing his groom and lying Michel in bed.

“Am I very ill?”

“Yes. But there is a doctor here.”

Michel nodded, drawing the covers tightly around himself, even over the clothing he still wore. “It is very cold, father, can I have a fire?”

If he were inclined to grant Michel whatever he wished, the doctor Rosier entered at that moment to intervene. “No; we must apply cool remedies, to calm the heat of the fever. I will take a good amount of blood, and if he does not improve, perhaps a cold bath.”

Yet as Rosier approached and pulled the covers away, ordinarily-agreeable Michel grasped them back to himself, leveling a very severe expression upon the physician, and called, “No,” in such a tone that the doctor balked as if intimidated by this child, who surely had no real power to resist him. “No,” he said again, “I am cold, and I want to sleep.”

The physician looked uncertainly up at Enjolras, who approached his son as well. “Michel,” he said sternly, but the boy only gripped the covers more tightly.

“No. Father—” but he could not say more, for the severity of his expression could not hold, betraying the frightened child that remained behind it, and nor could he prevent tears from rolling down his cheeks, even as he tried to turn his head away.

“A moment with my son, please, Doctor.” This was granted; Rosier stood and left the room, closing the door to give them some privacy. Enjolras sat down on the bed, beside Michel. “Look at me, please.”

Michel did so, with evident reluctance; his lips were trembling. But, as Enjolras raised his sleeve and began to wipe away the tears, he relaxed some, leaving a lingering confusion.

“You are frightened. As am I.” He touched the boy’s chin, looking at him with great gentleness.

Michel took a moment to compose himself. “I don’t wish to die, Father,” he said, but he sounded very calm. “But if I must, then I must, except that I want Étie to have my horse. And that… if I am dying, I don’t want…”

“You don’t want to die in discomfort; you are cold, and wish to be warm, and comfortable, so that you can be calm and brave.” It was difficult to say, but it gratified him to see Michel nod and release his vice grip on the covers. “I understand. I want that, too, if it is to happen.” He closed his own eyes and took a breath before reopening them. “But it is less important to be calm, to have the appearance of bravery, than to be courageous in truth, to fight until you have no more means of resistance. You are not finished, yet, and that is why you must obey the doctor, however unpleasant.”

Michel nodded slowly, but held his gaze, perhaps attempting to summon whatever strength he possessed in his small, frail body.

“I will not lose you, son.”

At last, Michel moved forward, hugging his father in a tight embrace of his own accord, and again Enjolras could not recall if this had ever happened before. “I will try,” he said, and then, in a smaller voice, “I love you.”

Enjolras bowed his head so that his face touched the crown of Michel’s head, and held him close in return; he felt a tear run down his own cheek and into the boy’s golden hair.

Things did not progress smoothly from there, for either of them. Michel submitted to the doctor’s treatments, some which left him shaking, weak, almost lifeless. There was a day and a night that he slept and could not be roused at all, not even through the use of a bottle of ammoniac salts. Enjolras himself had no rest for some time, until he was half delirious; he prayed, made vows—to what entity he did not know. But now, acknowledging what may be lost, they clung faster to it, and endured.

The fifth morning, Enjolras made his way into Michel’s room and found him sitting upright and writing on a piece of parchment. His eyes were the vibrant blue that Enjolras remembered, his cheeks pink not from fever but from life. “Father,” he said, setting his page aside, and it was curiosity more than confusion in his expression now.

“Yes. You look very well.” He came to sit beside him, to place a hand on his forehead and feel that it was clear of fever.

Michel nodded and then, at ease with touching him in a way that Enjolras could hardly have imagined a week ago, placed a hand upon his jaw. “I have never seen you with a beard before.”

Enjolras, startled, pulled back, and then laughed with surprise, which made Michel smile as well. “Come, then, my son; I will show you how a man shaves his face, and you shall never have to again.” Michel’s hand fell and rested in his own.


End file.
